Hand Quilt

My kneecaps ache pressed against the wiry carpet stained with indications of the past. Time spent caged in beige walls. My palms & knees are marked by the carpet. The room is still. Dust particles floating. Silence is thick. My hands find the soft skin of her sparkly pink-dipped finger tips. My hand blanketed in hers. I used to get lost in her full-grown hands; now mine are bigger than her frail, aged ones. My eyelids fall. My breathing syncs with hers. In & out. In & out. I get lost in the pattern of the air expelling from my lungs to fill hers. As long as my hand is wrapped in hers & my air fills her lungs, we’ll be together. I could be lost in the pattern forever. The weight of my body crushing my legs wakes me up. Her hand is gone. The room is empty. My hand is blanketed in cold, metal quilts, squares sewn together. The colorful, patterned metal flows into familiar fabrics, making up the quilt wrapping my body. My eyes fall shut. I can’t bear the small beige room without her in it.